a home in your mind
by lady scribe of avandell
Summary: "I will be perfectly fine staying in a hotel for a couple weeks. It will be like a vacation without actually being a vacation." "Steve has a guest room." Steve chokes on his water. "I do? I mean, I do. Yeah, uh, Hill—Maria, you can stay at my place. If you need to."


**a home in your mind**

Steve loves his job. Loves working with students, loves getting to discuss the tough issues of history, loves that he gets to spend time with other like-minded people. He even likes the committee meetings. Of course, the fact that he admitted this to Bucky once means that he has been elected chair of almost all the committees he's a part of (the one exception is the committee for the Women in Progress Symposium, which is Dr. Potts' brainchild).

He doesn't mind being in charge of committees, even though they add to his already-significant workload. Being in charge of committees means regular meetings with Dean Hill, who runs the academic side of Kirby with the ruthless efficiency of a drill sergeant. Some of the faculty (namely Bucky and Clint) are scared of her, but Steve likes that she's direct and won't accept anything less than the best. Though they're not particularly close, they've become friends over the past couple years, and Steve admires her—in a strictly professional capacity, as he often has to remind Bucky. There's a reason Kirby has an excellent reputation despite its small size, and Maria Hill is a part of it.

Today, though, Hill is late for their nine o'clock meeting on the new academic objectives for the history department.

"She called," Sharon says with a shrug when he arrives at her office. "Said her pipes burst overnight, and she needed to take care of some things before she came in. I can reschedule you for next week."

Steve shakes his head. "That's alright. I can wait." It's sort of true; his class doesn't start until ten, so if she shows up by nine-thirty, they'll be fine.

Sharon shrugs. "Suit yourself. Coffee?"

"No thanks."

A quarter to ten, Maria walks in, looking like she has neither slept nor showered.

Steve stands to greet her. "Mari—Hill, hey."

She frowns at him. "Rogers, have you been waiting all this time? I told Sharon to reschedule you."

"I, uh, didn't have anything better to do?" he offers, acutely aware of the way Maria's eyebrows rise.

"Nothing?"

"Well, I got some grading done. It's much quieter here than in the department."

Maria snorts. "I'm sure. Well, since you're here, we might as well get this meeting over with."

"I, um, have to go, actually. Modern US is at ten, and my students will leave if I'm not there on time."

"Well then. Sharon, will you please reschedule Dr. Rogers for — same time next week?"

Steve nods. "Yeah, that'll be fine."

"Good. And Sharon, hold my calls for the next thirty minutes; I've got to find someone who can rip out some carpets." And with that, Maria Hill walks into her office, letting the door slam behind her.

"See you next week, Steve," Sharon sing-songs, a little bit of a laugh in her voice that Steve chooses to ignore.

"Did you hear about Hill?" Bucky asks when he drops into the seat beside Steve at lunch.

"Hmm?" Steve doesn't look up from the journal article he's not actually reading, keeping his face carefully neutral. Bucky thinks Steve has a crush on their academic dean, but he's wrong. They're just colleagues, not even friends, really. Academic acquaintances, if he had to come up with a term.

"She's homeless," Natasha supplies as she slides into the seat on his other side.

That draws Steve up sharply. "Homeless?"

Natasha crunches a carrot. "Pipes burst, flooded the place badly enough they said it'll take weeks to fix. So, homeless."

"A flooded floor does not make you homeless, Natasha."

"It does if you have to redo all the flooring and the wiring," says a voice from behind him.

Steve turns to see Hill with a tray of chicken satay. Her hair appears freshly washed and though she still looks harried, her sardonic smile is less tight than when he saw her this morning.

"It's that bad?"

"It might be," she says as she sits down across the table. "My place is old, and the wiring wasn't up to code to begin with — it was grandfathered in only because it wasn't actually _dangerous_. If I make any changes, it has to be brought up to code. The insurance will cover the costs, but between redoing the wiring and having to replace all the carpets, I'm looking at several weeks of construction. And honestly, if they're going to have to redo things, I might as well have them do some of the remodeling I've been wanting to do."

"Where are you going to stay while they're working?" Natasha asks, curious look on her face. Steve narrows his eyes at her, because it's a look that says she's up to no good.

"Probably a hotel," Maria says, stabbing at her lunch with a pair of chopsticks. "It won't be long enough to try for a sublet."

"Nonsense," Natasha says. "Hotels are expensive, stay with a friend."

"Are you offering, Dr. Romanova?"

"No," Natasha returns airily. "I don't have a spare room to offer you." This is a lie; Steve has been to Natasha's house. Her spare bedroom is one part Russian literature library and one part gymnasium. There's also a bed in it, which mostly seems to be used by her cat.

He's about to say as much when Bucky pipes up from Steve's right elbow. "I do!"

Maria levels her gaze at Bucky. "Barnes, I've seen your apartment. You could not pay me enough to move in with you, even for a night. Thank you both for your concern, but I will be perfectly fine staying in a hotel for a couple weeks. It will be like a vacation without actually being a vacation."

"Steve has a guest room."

Steve chokes on his water. "I do? I mean, I do." He coughs again, turning to glare at Natasha while clearing his throat. "Yeah, uh, Hill—Maria, you can stay at my place. If you need to."

"Thank you, Rogers, but I—"

"It's settled then," Natasha says brightly. "You can stay at Steve's until your place is finished. It'll be fun."

"I wouldn't want to impose," Maria starts.

"It's not an imposition," Steve says, though he's really not sure why. "The guest room's downstairs and there's a full bathroom, so you wouldn't have to share. Besides, Natasha's right; hotels are always overpriced, and you wouldn't be able to cook or anything. You don't really want continental breakfasts for the next month, do you?"

Maria lets out a long breath. "Fine. If you insist."

"I do."

"All right then. Email me directions. I'll come by at seven?"

Steve nods. "That'll be great."

Maria's phone buzzes on her tray. "That's the contractor, I better go." She stands, taking her tray in one hand and answering her phone with the other. "I'll see you later."

She walks away, and as soon as she's out of earshot, Steve turns to scowl at his friends. "I'm going to kill both of you, slowly and painfully."

"If you say so, Steve," Natasha says as she packs away her lunchbox. "Enjoy the rest of your day." She and Bucky aren't subtle about the high-five they share as she leaves.

"Really. I'm going to murder you," Steve tells Bucky as they finish their food.

"Yeah, you do that, pal." And Bucky just grins.

Maria arrives at Steve's house precisely at seven o'clock, suitcases in tow. "You really don't have to do this," she says as he lets her in, taking her bags and leading her down the hall. "I can stay somewhere else."

"Nonsense," Steve answers. "You're already here, you might as well stay."

He shows her to the guest room, hoping it's not too obvious that he did a rushed vacuum-and-dusting job and fluffed the pillows on the bed. He watches her eyes flicker in amusement at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf of comics.

"The bathroom's across the hall, and there's clean towels in the closet. I can put a fresh pot of coffee on—I'm grading papers in the kitchen, so—or there's the TV in the living room. Or you can just stay in here, if you want."

She snorts. "You going to lock me away in the cupboard under the stairs, Rogers?"

"... That came out wrong. I meant, you don't have to be social or watch me grade papers if you don't want to. My place is yours, for the time being, so feel free to do whatever you like. Nowhere's off-limits."

"Not even the dirty magazines you hide under your bed?"

Steve wills himself not to blush as he answers, "I'm a bachelor; I don't bother with hiding them."

That gets a genuine laugh out of her. "Let me settle in, but coffee would be great. Thank you." She puts a hand on his arm. "Really."

"Of course. I'll just— kitchen's back down the hall."

He hovers in the doorway for a moment and then spins on his heel to go back to the kitchen.

Steve busies himself with making coffee, thinking for the millionth time since lunch that this was a monumentally bad idea and he's going to thoroughly murder Bucky and Natasha. Now that he's had time to really dwell on it, he's sure there are probably rules about unmarried faculty members fraternizing, let alone _living together_ for an indeterminate amount of time. And if there aren't, there should be, so things like this don't happen.

He's so wrapped up in his thoughts that when Maria says, "That smells good," he almost drops the mugs he pulled out of the cabinet.

Steve turns to see she's changed into leggings and an oversized Kirby U hoodie. He frowns at the bleach spot just below her right shoulder.

"Is that mine?"

Maria shrugs. "Could be. I found it in the faculty lounge one weekend when we were working on the accreditation for the OT program. It was winter, and I was cold."

"I'd like it back, if you don't mind."

She smiles, all teeth. "I'll just steal it back out of your closet. It's comfy."

"I know. That's why I want it back."

"Too bad. You shouldn't have left it in the lounge."

Steve mock-glares at her as he hands her a mug of coffee. "I know where you sleep."

"And I write your yearly evaluations."

He points a finger at her. "This isn't over, Hill. I will get that hoodie back. But right now, I will be magnanimous and allow you to borrow it while you stay in my home."

Maria smirks as she takes a seat at the table. "_So_ magnanimous of you, Steve," she mocks. She looks down at the papers strewn across the table. "What class is this?"

"Seminar on the Industrial Revolution. Stark has the other half, and Thursday, we'll trade. We're grading on a rubric, and we'll take the average of our two grades. It's the most fair way. Stark wanted to use a bell curve." He doesn't tell her about the epic row they had when Tony first mentioned grading on a curve; she probably knows about it anyway, judging from the look on her face.

"Mid-term papers?"

"First draft of the final, actually. I've found that students will only write one draft if you don't make them turn in multiple versions."

Maria nods and sips her coffee. "Smart. I hope you're tough on the first round."

Steve laughs. "Oh, we are. You should see Stark's notes on improper grammar. I think it's safe to blame Pepper for his obsession with dangling participles."

"I've seen Potts edit graduation ceremony programs _during_ the ceremony, so I believe that wholeheartedly."

"Have you ever heard her rant—"

"—on Kerouac? More than once. But if you really want to get her going, ask her about Jean-Jacques Rousseau's separate spheres."

"She gave that lecture once for the humanities core. Clint was supposed to go that day, but he had the flu, so Pepper took over. I had to duck out the back so I could laugh. I've never seen so many shocked freshmen in my life. It was beautiful."

"She's still not quite as fantastic as Natasha on the Russian Revolution, though."

Steve puts a hand up. "Stop right there, Hill. This is a Russia-free zone. We do not talk about Russian history, literature, or language here. Ever."

Maria's eyebrows disappear under her bangs. "I take it you've had issues with those subjects before? From a couple of enthusiasts?"

"You have no idea. I've even banned them from bringing vodka. Arguments over the funniest parts of Dostoevksy do not actually get better when they are being shouted _in Russian_ between shots of Stoli, just so you know."

"Duly noted. So I'm free to roam, but only if I promise not to do it in Russian."

"Sounds about right."

They fall into silence, Maria still sipping at her coffee, and Steve goes back to his grading. He'd like to finish this stack tonight, but he'd also like to just keep talking to Maria. His stomach rumbles and he remembers—

"Did you eat dinner?"

"Hmm?" Maria blinks at him.

"Dinner," he repeats. "Did you eat before you came over?"

"Yes. Thanks. Did you?"

Steve ducks his head. "No."

"I won't be offended if you want to fix your supper, Rogers. I can even sit here and stare at you while you eat, if you want."

"Ha. Thanks for that."

"Any time."

Steve pushes back from the table and goes to the fridge. "I'm making grilled cheese and tomato soup," he says over his shoulder. "Are you sure you don't want anything?"

"What is this, grade school?" Maria says, but there's a smile in her voice. "I would love a grilled cheese by the master chef."

"One grilled cheese, coming right up. I hope you like white cheddar, because that's all I've got." He busies himself with turning on the stove and assembling the sandwiches.

"What, no American cheese for Captain America?"

"Hey." Steve turns to wag the spatula at her. "Just because we share a name does not make me Captain America. Despite popular opinion, comic book characters do _not_ come to life if people believe in them hard enough."

"Yet you still wrote your dissertation on the Star-Spangled Man."

Steve doesn't have a witty comeback for that, so he sticks his tongue out at her and turns back to the stove, checking the sandwiches before flipping them over.

"You're fooling no one, Rogers."

"Never said I was trying to." He slides the sandwiches onto a plate and gives the soup a stir before setting the plate in the space Maria has cleared on the table.

She gingerly picks up one of the sandwiches, pulling it apart before setting one half back down, and Steve watches while she takes a bite before he moves back to the stove.

"So why _did _you write on Captain America?" she asks with her mouth full.

Steve hesitates. He has a standard answer ("an era I was interested in and an angle that hadn't been investigated"), but it's not the full story.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Maria says when he's been quiet for too long.

"No, it's—" He stops short while he ladles out the soup and carries his bowl to the table. "It's kind of long and boring, and I'm not sure you really want to know."

Maria fixes him with a look that has cowed other men. "Rogers, I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know."

"Fine, but don't blame me if you get bored with it. I started out with a vague plan to study the propaganda of World War II, especially focusing on American propaganda. That got narrowed down to homefront propaganda, because there's so much of it that I couldn't very well try to cover everything. Besides, I was looking for a new angle, something nobody had covered before." He pauses in his story to eat; Maria has just a couple bites of her sandwich left, and he thinks about offering to make more.

"Where do the comic books come in?"

"Well, the new angle, right? I was in the City, talking with the historians at Kaufman Studios about Capra's war films, and somebody asked if I'd ever seen any of the _Captain America_ serials. I'd seen one or two, but they had the whole archive." He laughs at himself. "I wound up spending the rest of the afternoon watching these terrible forty-minute films. _The Howling Commandos Take the Japs!_ and _Captain America In: A Fight For Liberty_, which is about a girl named Liberty who gets kidnapped by Nazis."

He can see the smile tugging at Maria's lips.

"It's alright, you can laugh. That one is just as terrible as it sounds."

"Do you still have access to them?"

"A lot of them are actually on Netflix now, or were. If they're not any more, I could probably call my contacts at Kaufman, if you're really interested. I should warn you, though, they're best with a drinking game."

"Hmm." Maria seems to consider this information. "But that still doesn't explain the comic books."

"Right. The comic books." Steve sighs. "I was looking for more context for the serials, because they don't really explain who or what Cap and the Commandos are; they assume you already know them from the comics. There wasn't much outside of some pop history books and Wikipedia, and I needed primary sources. So I started hunting for the early comics. I had some friends in undergrad and in the master's program who were readers, but I'd never gotten into the genre myself. So I started with them, borrowing their trades and trying to piece together Captain America's history. And then it just kind of snowballed. I read my friends' books, then I raided the public library, made friends with the guys at the comic book shops. Met one gal who had a whole room full of back issues dating back to the sixties. I put in calls to archives, to the publishers, trying to track down some of the rare issues from the Golden Age."

He shakes his head and looks down at his half-forgotten dinner before looking back up at Maria, who watches him with a hand tucked under her chin. "The more I dug up, the more I realized just how much of a cipher Captain America really was. I got to a point where you could hand me any issue, and I could figure out what decade—and in some cases, what year—it was released. And it just seemed very important, that you could trace American history through the eyes of this comic book superhero but that no one had ever done it before."

"Wow," Maria says after they sit in silence for a minute. "That's—"

"Lame? Incredibly dorky?"

"I was going to say it's an impressive rabbit hole you fell down. It certainly makes my thesis on government policy in the Middle East seem a little less exciting."

Steve hunches his shoulders, both pleased and embarrassed by her praise. "It was a bit like falling down the rabbit hole," he admits. "And it's provided Bucky with years of cannon fodder."

"Barnes needed more cannon fodder?"

"Well, probably not."

He stands up, gathering their dishes to put them away. Maria stands, too, rinsing out her coffee cup before handing it off to him. She lets loose a yawn and says, "I should let you finish your grading. I'll see you in the morning?"

He nods. "I usually leave for campus around eight. Oh! Before I forget—Bucky has my spare keys, so I'll pick up another set tomorrow and drop it by your office."

"If I'm not there, leave them with Sharon."

Maria hesitates as if she's about to say something else but thinks better of it. "Good night, Steve."

"Good night."

Steve sits back down at the kitchen table, determined to finish at least half of the stack before he goes to bed.

The next morning, Steve rolls out of bed and goes for his regular run, barely sparing a thought for his houseguest (barely remembering he has a houseguest).

He is reminded of this fact when he walks in the back door twenty minutes later, already pulling off his sweat-soaked t-shirt to leave it in the laundry, and he hears, "Holy shit, Rogers!"

He freezes midway through pulling off his shirt, hurriedly tugging it back down. Maria looks as startled as he feels, and then he realizes she's only wearing a towel.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Steve covers his eyes and spins on his heel so he's facing away from Maria. He doesn't move until he hears the guest room door slam, and even then, he darts a quick glance over his shoulder before turning around. He thinks about knocking on her door to apologize again but decides against it. Instead, he announces, "I'm going upstairs. I'll see you on campus."

Maria shouts back, "Okay," but he can't tell if there's anger or just relief in her voice.

He stomps up the stairs and takes his time with his morning routine, concentrating on each task in an effort to erase the image of Maria standing almost naked in his hallway. It doesn't work as well as he'd like.

By the time he's out of the shower and dressed for work, Maria's car is gone from the driveway. He tries not to be relieved at that and fails.

Steve also tries to erase the image of her in the hallway, but the more he tries to not think about it, the clearer the mental image is. He has a flash fantasy of asking her to pose for him, to practice his life-drawing on her sharp collar bones and the long lines of her legs, but he banishes that thought as soon as it starts.

It's inappropriate and unprofessional and the whole thing puts him in a sour mood that follows him to class and carries him through the day. It's Tuesday, which means a full schedule, so he doesn't even make it into the department annex until after lunch.

"So how was last night?" Bucky asks without preamble, dropping into the extra chair in Steve's tiny office like he's just been waiting for Steve to show up.

Steve doesn't look up from the grades he's entering into the computer. "Remember how I promised to murder you? It's extra-true now."

"I'm guessing that means you didn't get laid last night."

"That's none of your business."

Bucky's eyebrows rise. "_Did_ you get laid last night?"

"No! And even if I did, it would still be none of your business!"

"What's none of his business?" Clint asks from the doorway.

"Nothing—"

"Stevie's pissed because Hill didn't fall for his charms last night." Bucky's facing Clint, but Steve knows the fucker's smirking, and he'd really like to punch his friend.

"Oh. Tough break, Rogers," Clint says, inviting himself into the room, "but Hill's no easy mark. You'll have to turn up your game if you really want to woo her."

"Who are we wooing?" Kate, the department secretary, sticks her head in.

"_We_ are not wooing _anybody_," Steve insists, to no avail.

"Hill," Clint says at the same time.

"She likes cheese," Kate offers helpfully. "Good cheeses. And charcuterie and good wine. That's what she always orders on girls' nights. I'd go with a nice dry white, if I were you. Something high-quality but not budget-breaking. She's the sort that likes to be pampered but doesn't want it to be too flashy."

"You could have a picnic in your back yard!" Clint says. "Expensive food, matched with a low-key venue. The ladies love that. And—" he pauses dramatically "—it's just a short walk back inside when you're ready for third base."

Steve stares at Clint for a moment before gathering his wits. "Out," he says at last. "All of you! OUT." He points at the door, and the look on his face must be truly terrifying because even Bucky gets moving quickly.

"And I don't want to hear any more about it!" he shouts at their backs.

"More about what?" Only the fact that it's Dr. Potts keeps Steve from throwing his Captain America paperweight (a gift from his ex-best friend Bucky) at her head.

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

"If you say so," she says with an amused grin. "I was just wondering if you've given any more thought to the Symposium schedule."

Steve winces. "I haven't. I'm sorry."

"No matter. It's still several months away, so we have plenty of time." She starts to leave and then turns back to him. "You know, Steve, if you'd like to take Maria out, all you'd have to do is ask her."

He groans. "Not you, too."

"For what it's worth, I think she'd say yes." Pepper gives him a smile he can't quite decipher and slips out the door.

It's after nine when he gets home. Maria's car is already parked in the driveway, and the light is on in the dining room Steve never uses.

He announces his presence loudly as he comes in, intentionally fumbling with the lock and dropping his keys on the side table by the closet.

"You're back late," Maria says when he sticks his head in the dining room. She's wearing his sweatshirt again and a pair of reading glasses he's never seen before, a laptop and a text book open on the table in front of her.

"Sam's War on Film class," he explains, dropping into a seat at the table. "It was _All Quiet On the Western Front_, so he had me do the intro, and I stuck around for the movie." He doesn't tell her he was trying to avoid her; he's pretty sure she can see right through his flimsy excuse.

"Did you eat? I made hummus. Borrowed your food processor, hope you don't mind."

"No, of course— free rein."

"Did you eat?" she repeats, and he realizes that she's actually holding out a plate of hummus, pita, and carrots to him.

"I had some popcorn."

Maria stares at him. "Sit down, Rogers. Eat." She shoves the plate at him. "We need to talk, anyway."

"Talk?" He chokes on a carrot. "What about?"

"I can't stay here," she begins, holding up a hand to stop his apology, "if you are going to avoid me. This morning was—"

"It won't happen again, I promise."

"I've been through worse," she says calmly. "Anyway, if anyone should be apologizing, it's me. I shouldn't have left my robe in the bedroom."

Steve isn't sure how to respond to that, brain shorting out at the mental image of Maria Hill in a flimsy silk robe, one that barely covers the curve of her ass, the way the towel she was wearing this morning—

"What time are you going to campus tomorrow?" Maria asks suddenly, yanking Steve's thoughts back on track.

"Tomorrow is Wednesday, right? I have to be there for the eight o'clock class."

"I think we should carpool."

Whatever direction Steve was expecting this conversation to go, that was definitely not it.

"You do?"

"Yes. It doesn't make sense for us to both drive our cars to campus every day when we're both staying here. If one of us has plans or errands, then sure, but if you're just going to come back here, and I'm just going to come back here, then why should we waste the gas?"

"Are you sure we won't get sick of each other?"

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

He shakes his head. "No! I would never—no. It's just— won't people talk?"

Maria rolls her eyes. "I'm not sure if you've noticed this, Steve, but people are already talking. Sharon asked me if your bedroom smells like patriotism and apple pie, and I didn't even tell her I was staying here."

"My bedroom?"

"I told her it smells like sex and weed," she deadpans.

"I hope you didn't tell her about my basement garden, too," he quips back, refusing to let his embarrassment overtake him.

"Was I not supposed to? Oh, I'm sorry." She smirks. "But you didn't answer my question. Carpooling, yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Excellent." She closes her laptop, stands, and begins to clear her dishes.

Steve stands, too, and takes the plates from her. "I'll do the dishes."

"I can do them. It's my mess."

"House rules: the chef doesn't have to clean."

"Fine." She gathers up her laptop and paperwork. "I'll see you in the morning."

Steve bids her good night and walks into the kitchen. He lets out a laugh: the kitchen is a disaster zone of cutting boards, the food processor, and a myriad of bowls. "Well-played, Hill," he shouts down the hall. "Well-played."

"House rules, Rogers," she shouts back.

They settle into a routine. Steve wakes up just before dawn and goes for his run. By the time he returns, Maria is awake, dressed, and making breakfast (coffee and toast, or cereal, or once, on a Friday when neither of them have to be in early, crepes). Steve cleans himself up and joins her for breakfast, and they ride to school, alternating vehicles. They do their respective jobs, they occasionally eat lunch together, they swap gossip on the way home. They take turns cooking and dish-washing, sometimes opting for pizza or takeout on particularly long days, and they grade papers or do paperwork or watch _Captain America _serials until late into the night.

After the first week, Bucky and Clint stop teasing him about his houseguest, and even Natasha and Sharon stop being nosy. Tony alludes to the situation only once in a committee meeting before matching glares from Pepper and Maria shut him up.

By the second week, Steve finds himself including Maria in his weekend plans, cajoling her into joining him and Natasha and Bucky at the local movie theater's marathon of Eisenstein's greatest works. ("Please don't make me sit through _Battleship Potemkin_ alone with the Russian mafia we unfortunately call friends." "As long as I don't have to sit next to Barnes." "Deal.") She does likewise, coercing him into going dancing, which he enjoys more than he expected. ("I have two left feet." "Can you walk?" "Yes." "Then you can dance.")

It's all very domestic, and if Steve secretly thinks this is the sort of life he's always wanted, nobody has to know it but him.

Of course, Steve knows the domestic bliss will come to an end eventually, but it comes sooner than he expected.

"I'm driving separately today," Maria says over bagels that Friday morning, week three of her stay.

"Oh?"

"The contractor called. They're ready for the building inspection and need me to be there."

"Oh." He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice; he's not sure he succeeds, because Maria gives him an odd look. He attempts a smile. "Should I expect you back tonight?"

"Just because they're doing the inspection doesn't mean I'll be able to move in right away. I might as well wait until the painting's finished, at least. If that's alright with you."

"Yeah. Yes. Definitely," Steve says, entirely too quickly. "However long you need."

"Thank you. I owe you."

He smiles again, ignoring the sick slip of nerves low in his belly. "It's nothing. I hope it goes well today," he says with an enthusiasm he doesn't quite feel.

He spends work in a daze, off-kilter enough that he misses a Symposium meeting with Pepper that he has to have Kate reschedule.

He comes home to an empty house. Steve knows he's being stupid, but it doesn't keep him from feeling profoundly alone. He probably should have asked Bucky or Natasha or even Clint to meet him for drinks or to watch the game, because sitting at home by himself wondering how Maria's building inspection is going is _definitely _not healthy. Especially when he nearly burns down the kitchen because he's so distracted.

He's still airing out the kitchen when Maria finally gets ho—gets back.

She looks at him and at the open windows and French doors and at the smoking mess that was supposed to be chicken casserole and says, "I know I said I owe you, but I'm not ready for you to collect. They haven't finished putting up the drywall yet."

"I wasn't—" he starts, but she cuts him off with a laugh.

"Steve, I'm teasing. Now, what do you say to dinner out? My treat."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. That's why it's a treat."

Maria takes him to Abuelita's, a dive Mexican restaurant on the south edge of town. Steve has only been here once before, with Sam and Clint on karaoke night. It was an unmitigated disaster because Clint and karaoke really don't mix, so he isn't sure what to expect when Maria pulls in the parking lot.

He hesitates just long enough for Maria to say, "I know it doesn't look like much, but their margaritas are _to diefor_. And after the afternoon I had, I could definitely use some deadly margaritas."

"That bad, huh?"

"The inspection itself wasn't bad," she starts as they crunch gravel across the parking lot. "It's just the inspector is an ex."

"Oh."

"Yeah." She turns back to him before she opens the door. "I should warn you: I eat here a lot."

Steve wonders if that means she's the reigning karaoke champion or something, but then they walk through the door and are met with a chorus of "Maria!" followed by lots of excited chattering in Spanish. He only catches every fifth word, but it's enough to understand that the staff have missed her, somebody had a baby, and they understand why she hasn't been around (this last bit is accompanied by significant glances aimed in his direction). Maria laughs and responds back in fluent Spanish, and Steve can only assume she's telling them about their housing situation.

After several minutes of this back-and-forth, they're finally seated in a corner booth away from the handful of other diners. Steve is handed a menu; Maria is not. He starts to open the menu, but she slaps it down.

"You want the tacos off the back." The look on her face is deadly serious. "Trust me. The _cecina_'s really good, and so is the _lengua_, if you like beef tongue."

One of the servers brings them two bright green margaritas without prompting. Maria takes a big gulp of hers and then rattles off her order in more flawless Spanish.

Steve says, "I'll have, uh, the _lengua_? And _cecina_?"

"_Dos_?"

"Sure."

The guy takes Steve's menu and as he walks away, another server brings them an overflowing bowl of still-warm chips and two ramekins of salsa, one red and one green. Steve takes a big scoop of the red and immediately wishes he hadn't.

"That's the spicy one," Maria says while his eyes water. He reaches for his drink, and she says, "That's not gonna help you. Manuel! _Una leche, por favor_!"

Their first server brings out a tall glass of cold milk, setting it in front of Steve with a remark to Maria. Maria fixes Manuel with a stare that has cowed many a faculty member, but he only grins back. She looks back at Steve and says, "Why aren't you drinking your milk?"

"I—"

"It will help, I promise. Drink."

Steve obeys, because Maria gives him that same hard stare and he's only human. When he's drained half the glass, the burning sensation has subsided and he's able to ask, "How often do you come here?"

"I'm usually here at least once a week. They have bottomless chips and salsa and, as I already mentioned, the best margaritas in the world." As if to prove her declaration, she raises her glass and drinks it down.

Steve takes a tentative first sip of his own margarita, and he has to admit they are pretty good, the right mix of alcohol and lime and a salt rim that doesn't overwhelm the rest of it. He continues to sip at it while Maria drains the last of hers and signals to Manuel to bring another.

"You sure you want a second already?" Steve can't help but ask.

Thankfully, Maria doesn't start lecturing him about trying to make decisions for her. Instead she says, "You didn't have to spend your afternoon with my piece-of-shit ex. So yes, I definitely want a second already. And probably a third." She fishes out her keys. "You're driving us home, by the way."

"He was that bad?" Steve asks as he stows the keys in his pocket.

"He was worse."

And from there, Maria launches into a rant about her shit ex Brock and how he was always bitter about her independence and didn't like her job and wanted her to teach high school. ("High school, Steve! Can you imagine?") She only stops because their food arrives—along with a third margarita—and she's too busy eating tacos to keep talking about the guy. The food is as delicious as Maria had said it would be, and Steve is already planning to come back on another non-karaoke night. Maybe with Maria in tow.

He thinks (hopes) that will be the end of Maria's rant, because he really doesn't want to hear about her bad ex-boyfriend, but as soon as she finishes off the last radish, Maria returns to the topic.

"It was awful, Steve. He kept asking me questions about my current living situation and where I was staying during the construction and if I wanted help getting moved back in. I waited until he recorded the passing inspection to tell him where to shove it." She smiles serenely before raising her glass in a toast. "Here's to Brock Rumlow, may he suffer a limp dick forever." She pauses and tilts her head toward him. "And here's to Steve Rogers, may he never suffer that problem."

Steve chokes on the sip of water he was taking (he'd switched after his first margarita). "Uh, thanks?" he hazards, not sure where she's going with this train of thought.

She pats his hand, caressing his fingers with her thumb, and says, "You're welcome." She doesn't move her hand away from his.

And then abruptly, "We should go."

"Okay." He signals for the check and takes it from Manuel before Maria can stop him.

"Steve, it's my treat," she whines.

"Let me get this one," he insists. "Consider it a housewarming gift." She pouts but doesn't argue any more. The pout looks good on her, and Steve forcibly pushes that thought away.

The ride home is quiet, but when they get inside, Maria announces, "Wow, Steve, do you think it will be less smoky upstairs?"

She's stumbling up the stairs before he can stop her, so he just follows. So far as he knows, she hasn't been up here since she arrived. This is confirmed when she opens the door to his office, looks in, and turns back to look at him.

"You never said you were an artist."

It's true; he rarely tells _anyone_ that he has a bachelor's in fine arts or that he has an office-slash-studio with south-facing windows, a fainting couch, and stacks of charcoal drawings (thankfully, none of the nudes are on display right now). Bucky is the only person on campus who knows about it, and he's been sworn to secrecy. It's not that he's embarrassed about it, just that you can only hear the inevitable "draw me like one of your French girls" joke so many times before you want to kill someone.

Before he can tell her this, Maria says, "That's really cool, Steve. You'll have to show me sometime."

She shuts the door and pushes past him to the door across the hall: his bedroom. Again, she looks in the room and turns back to him.

"Your room doesn't smell like weed or sex. I'm a little disappointed."

"Sorry?"

She laughs, but instead of closing the door and heading back downstairs, she opens it wider and walks in. Steve is glad he keeps it tidy, because he's not sure what he'd do if he had dirty underwear or worse lying out.

"You've been holding out on me, Rogers. I thought your entire Captain Americacollection was downstairs."

She's looking at the picture frames he has lining one side of his dresser mirror. Each one has a vintage trading card and a black-and-white photograph of the artist's model for the card. The cards belonged to his uncle; the photographs are reprints gifted to him by the archivist at Kaufman.

"The best pieces in any collection usually aren't on display," he tells Maria, coming to stand behind her. "These are probably the most valuable things I have in the house."

She reaches toward one but seems to think better of it. She turns suddenly to face him, and it's then that Steve realizes just how close he was standing. Maria licks her lips, and Steve watches, mesmerized. She watches back, and before he knows what's happening, her arms are around his neck and her lips are on his.

He tries to pull away at first, but she just holds onto him more firmly, dragging her nails against the back of his neck. There are a million reasons why this is a bad idea, but if he's honest, he's been wanting to kiss Maria for a long time. So he gives in and starts kissing back.

Her lips are chapped, and he can taste a hint of margarita salt as he opens his mouth against hers. He puts his hands on her waist, rubbing his thumbs against her lower ribs. Steve doesn't realize he's backed her up against his dresser until he hears the clatter of his cologne and deodorant being knocked over. He'll worry about it later, because right now, Maria is hitching herself higher so she can sit on the dresser. She brackets his hips with her thighs and arches against him as he spreads his hands across her back.

The height of the dresser means Steve no longer has to lean down to reach her mouth with his own, and he uses the easier angle to spread kisses across her jaw. He starts to press her back so he can move down her neck, but there's no space behind her. He huffs in frustration, and Maria laughs.

"We could move this somewhere else," she says, shifting forward so she can slide off the dresser.

Steve takes a step back and trips over the stick of deodorant. His arms pinwheel for a moment before he lands hard on the floor. Maria laughs again, but it devolves into giggles, her hand pressed against her mouth.

Steve tries to scowl at her but finds himself barely able to keep from laughing, too.

"Are you okay?" Maria asks between snorting laughter. She hops down from her perch, but Steve waves her away.

"I'm fine," he says, "just a bruised ego."

He's about to get up, but she puts a hand on his chest and with a serious look on her face says, "Show me where it hurts."

"It doesn't—"

"Your forehead?" She leans forward and presses a light kiss on his temple. "Your chin?" She kisses his jaw. "Your arm?" She takes his wrist in her hand and brushes her lips against the blue veins on the underside. Steve suppresses a shudder, which only makes Maria leave another kiss on the palm of his hand.

"You know, I landed on my ass." He means for it to be a wry comment, but it comes out breathlessly.

"All in due time," Maria answers, and if he weren't already turned on, that would have done it.

She's still holding his wrist, and Steve turns his arm so he can pull her into him. He kisses her lips again, and they stay like that, sitting on the floor of his room, sharing air and nips and kisses for a few minutes, hands roaming but without intent. Steve supposes they could move this to the bed or at least undress, but now that they've slowed down, it seems unnecessary to do more.

Maria does push him all the way down to the floor eventually. Her hair tickles his ears as she leans over him, her hands tickling his ribs in tandem. She grazes the shell of his right ear with her lips and whispers, "I don't want to go."

Steve shifts so he can look at her. "What do you mean? Go where?"

"Back to my place," she says softly, eyes closed.

"Oh." And then her words process. _Ohh_. "What if you don't? What if you stay?"

Maria opens her eyes and stares at Steve as if she doesn't believe he's real. "You mean it?"

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, if you want to."

She closes her eyes again. "Okay."

Maria settles against him, tucking her shoulder under his arm and resting her head against his shoulder. He's about to suggest they move to the bed, but then she lets out a little snuffling sound and he realizes she's asleep. He grabs for the bedcovers, just within his reach, and pulls the blanket over them.

Steve wakes alone in the dark. He'd think the makeout session and conversation with Maria had all been a dream, but he's still lying on the floor, the door has been shut, and the hall light is visible through the crack at the bottom.

He gets up, working out the kinks in his back before stumbling toward the door. He's pretty sure this evening has utterly fucked things up and ruined his friendship with Maria forever. She must have snuck off in the night as soon as she sobered up. It's the only explanation for his waking up at three in the morning alone, still on the floor.

Regardless, he knows he won't be getting much more sleep tonight, so he might as well make some coffee, maybe get a head-start on writing the next exam for Modern US. He heads downstairs and notices Maria left the kitchen light on.

He walks into the kitchen and gives a little yelp. Maria is sitting at the table, in his Kirby U hoodie, sipping at a cup of coffee.

She quirks a small smile and nods toward the press sitting on the counter. "It's fresh."

"Thank god," he breathes. He pours a cup and turns to look at her, leaning against the counter while he cradles his mug in his hands.

"Stop staring at me, Rogers," Maria says, hunching her shoulders. "Your eyes are like lasers on the back of my neck."

"Sorry."

She looks over her shoulder at him. "Did you mean what you said earlier? About me staying?"

He takes a gulp of coffee, scalding his tongue before answering. "Yeah," he says at last.

A slow smile overtakes Maria's face. "Okay."

"So you'll stay?"

"Yeah."

Steve is pretty sure his smile could light the town.

end


End file.
